Fairy Keeper (2 page)

“No, you don’t,” Sierra replied, as always.

The girls were rare in having keepers on both sides of their family tree, so it was a miracle Phoebe wasn’t born a keeper too. Sierra was just thankful her sister didn’t have to deal with the often-agitated fairies.

Phoebe usually argued at this point. She thought their tiny little glowing wings―about all you could see of most of them―were charming. So did lots of people who didn’t actually have to work with the treacherous creatures. But today, perhaps seeing the weariness stamped across her sister’s face, Phoebe summoned a smile. “Let’s pretend we can do anything, then. What would you rather be?”

“Anything. Anything but this.” The words came unbidden, soaked with bitter regret from years spent dreaming of a different life.

Phoebe’s smile faded, and Sierra wanted to kick herself. She didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but it was true. Sierra hated that her fate had been decided the moment she was born with a keeper mark on the back of her neck. Her path was fixed, no matter how much she wished otherwise. The fairies would never leave her alone. The mark was only the outward evidence of some inner trait or ability the fairies were drawn to. If she knew what it was, she’d change herself and be free.

Phoebe was quiet; only the sounds of the crunching stones beneath their feet filled the frosty air. They passed the old oak that snapped in half in last year’s big earthquake, ripped partly out of the dirt as the ground split near it. Sierra averted her eyes from the gnarled, naked roots aimed skyward instead of into the earth where they belonged.

Phoebe finally said, “At least you know you matter, Sierra. The fairies need you.”

Sierra had nothing to say in response. She didn’t have the words to express why it infuriated her to have no choice about her life’s calling. Yes, she took care of her fairies. If she didn’t, she’d never have a moment’s peace. The little worker fairies needed someone to protect them, as they weren’t very clever. Sierra built a special hatch for their home and found the exact mushrooms the queen needed to thrive. The fairies lived on the far edge of the Quinns’ land, as close to the forest as Sierra could get them while still keeping them safe. She made sure no wild creatures encroached on their territory and that other people left them alone. But in return, she took their nectar for Jack, even though she didn’t want to.

She’d told Phoebe how the fairies often fought during nectar collections but had glossed over how bad it really was. She didn’t allow Phoebe in the fairy meadow during actual collections. Too dangerous. Plus, if she saw what it was like, she’d worry more than she did already. She had seen the bites, scratches, and pinches. Sierra ran her fingers along two large scratches on her forearm, shaking her head. Never a sting, at least, since queens never attacked to kill their keepers. Well, they never had before, though Sierra sometimes wondered if her queen would be the first. Why the fairies stayed with her, she didn’t know, since they seemed to hate being stuck with her as much as she hated being stuck with them.

When they turned the corner at the clump of blackberry bushes where Phoebe would wait, Sierra paused. A haunting silence sat heavily in the meadow. No bass-deep thrumming of the fairies in their hatch rode along the breeze. No tiny lights like sparks flittered within the darkening trees. Her heart galloped. Where were her charges? Thankfully, her sister hadn’t noticed yet.

“Phoebe, I need you to go back and start cooking, okay? We don’t want dinner late for Jack. This won’t take long, but they get irritated at dusk, and I don’t want you to get hurt.” That last part was not a lie.

Phoebe’s shoulders sagged, but she knew a late dinner meant trouble. Finally, she headed back, dragging her feet, head tucked down into her chest. Her knitted shawl, too thin for the cold weather, hid her vibrant hair. Sierra gazed after her sister for a moment to make sure she was really going. If their mother hadn’t died birthing Phoebe, maybe things would have been different. Whatever kindness had been in their father must have died right along with her. Phoebe and Sierra stuck together, but some days were better than others. Before she could ache over how much more she wished she could give Phoebe, Sierra turned her attention back to the fairy hatch.

There were no cages for Sierra’s fairies. No wires, no lids, no glass. Except for the queen, they were so tiny they could fit through most holes, but they didn’t need cages with a fairy keeper around anyway.
She
was the reason they kept coming back. They did live in a slatted wooden box that allowed easy access to their nectar, but otherwise they were free to come and go as they pleased. Unlike Sierra. She was trapped by her mark, her father, and by her love for Phoebe.

Sierra tiptoed forward. The sky was darkening, but there were no glowing wings covered in the nectar that dripped off them in their hatches. A sense of dread swelled inside her like the beginning of an earthquake. Her skin prickled as it did in that still moment before chaos unleashed destruction.

When she reached the hatch, it appeared that a pile of tiny rainbow flower petals were spread on the ground. For one moment, she didn’t understand. Then her knees gave out when her mind made sense of the sight.

All the fairies were dead. No movement, no noise, no vibration, no light. Sierra searched the pile for her queen, the tiny wings rasping softly as she sifted them through her hands. They were like dry silk as they slid down her palms, which began to shake. She dropped the last dead fairy from her fingers and stood in shock. All dead but the queen, who was missing. She cursed, glancing around the clearing in a panic. Where was the queen?

She had no idea what could do something like this. She spun around but saw nothing in the meadow. A fairy queen was bigger than the rest, as large as a butterfly, easy to spot. She was definitely not in the pile at Sierra’s feet.

She grabbed the wooden hatch and turned it upside down, hoping for clues. The light was getting low, but the box was empty except for the last remains of nectar dripping down its sides. The heady scent floated in the air since she’d disturbed the hatch, but no angry fairies swarmed around her. The cry of an owl startled her, brought her back to herself. The sun was now only a red glow glaring over the treetops. What could have done this? Fairies were so strong.

Working quickly, Sierra scooped the tiny fairy remains into her jar and bag, looking over her shoulder around the glade again and again. She’d examine them later. She kept moving, aware the sun was almost below the horizon and that Jack was probably arriving at the house right now. She was really in for it. She cursed again as she picked up the last of the fairies.

They lay in the jar, still and silent. Except for the queens, fairies were so tiny you couldn’t even see arms and legs except beneath an apothecary’s magnifying lens. But all fairies glowed, at least when they were alive. Sierra had never seen more than one dead fairy at a time. In all the history of Aluvia, nothing like this had ever happened that she knew of, anywhere on the world. The pile of dull wings looked terribly wrong in the fading light, but they were beautiful even in death. She slid the jar into her bag. She needed to run. Her heart was pounding, demanding action.

Sierra’s thoughts jumbled together as she ran, like the fairies sliding around in her jar. Maybe she did this? Did they die because she wasn’t a good keeper? No feeling followed these thoughts. She was too stunned.

This was not the first time she had wondered if there was a mix-up at birth. She had never felt a special connection to her charges, not like her best friend Corbin, a keeper who loved his fairies with all his heart. But fairy keeping wasn’t something you signed up for or quit. The mark on her neck said she was a keeper, so she was one. The talent ran in families.

Sierra was the first keeper in her family in two generations, but their bloodline boasted an unusual number of keepers. Her father liked to claim their great-great-great-however-many-great grandmother was the first keeper in Aluvia. Jack liked to make a lot of claims, though. Didn’t make them true.

The ground blurred beneath her feet as she ducked under branches and leaped over fallen logs on the way home. Maybe her fairies dying meant she wasn’t a keeper anymore? She touched the base of her neck where the fairy wings birthmark sat. Warmth swept through her body as it always did when she touched it. Corbin would have ideas of what she should do next, wonderful keeper that he was, but Sierra was fresh out.

“Where are you?” she whispered aloud, as if her queen would answer.

Sierra raced through the darkness, stifling a sob on her fist. It wasn’t seeing the mishmash of crumbled wings and glitter on the cracked red dirt that made her want to cry, not really. Sierra talked to her fairies as she worked because it seemed to calm them some, but they didn’t talk or communicate like people. Crying over the deaths of the little worker fairies would be like crying over a bunch of dead bugs. The fairies’ deaths were sad, even tragic, because they were beautiful and important to the world. Still, it wasn’t like losing someone you loved. Even the queen, who was clearly more intelligent than the workers, had never managed to communicate much. She’d shown affection, and she’d shown anger. But even though Sierra hated her calling, she wouldn’t wish for them to die. What would a world be without their magic?

No, what was filling her with despair was the question: what would she tell Jack? What would he do when she told him the makers of his precious nectar were gone? If her fairies were all dead, she realized there was a good possibility she was as good as dead, too―her
and
her little sister. It wouldn’t take some kind of magical disaster to wipe them out.

Jack was enough all on his own.

he aroma of grilling onions greeted Sierra as she neared the back door. Through the window’s warped, speckled pane, she saw Phoebe stirring with a ladle at the wood-burning stove. She still had to stand on a slice of the lightning-struck tree trunk in order to reach the skillet. Her sleeves bunched up past her elbows as she worked. She was singing, as she often did, her high voice clear and sweet. Her red hair flashed in the lantern light, a cheery beacon of home. She often wished for dark brown hair like Sierra, but the bright red hair was perfect for Phoebe’s happy nature. Sierra gasped in relief―Phoebe was okay, at least for now. There would be time to figure out what to do.

The cast iron pan practically overflowed with sizzling onions, mushrooms and venison. Jack was back already, and he must have invited a guest to join them for dinner. Her mouth went dry. Telling him the news in front of one of his business associates would be like pouring lamp oil on herself and then lighting a match. And she didn’t want to upset Phoebe in front of their father. The critical conversation would have to wait until later.

Two sets of footsteps came down the hall: one lighter, one heavier. Jack was always light on his feet, a helpful skill in his line of work, although he had long since graduated from thievery and assassinations. Now he focused on the more profitable business of selling poisons and unlawful elixirs, including the most powerful in existence, made from fairy nectar. Handy to have a keeper in the family when you had ambitions to be one of the most successful dark alchemists in the country.